


The Lacustrine Studies

by Aszur



Category: Thief (Video Game 2014), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aszur/pseuds/Aszur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A proper classic heist by the Master Thief. Based on <a href="http://thief-kink.dreamwidth.org/681.html?thread=38057#cmt38057">this</a> prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lacustrine Studies

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my native language so any criticism is very much welcome. I've re-read it but still...
> 
> And it seems I'm always a bit late for every fandom.

Thick inky darkness dowsed the City; the starless sky hung low over the roofs and towers and sent tendrils of shadows on the streets. Ordinary, low-abiding citizens concealed themselves inside their well-lit nests until dawn, feeling unsafe even at home. Patrolling guards kept to small pools of light, emitted from torches and cressets and spent more time talking to each other than watching the shadows. One shadow in particular waltzed along tiled roofs and wooden gangways, watching and listening, for you could never be overly attentive in the City. The path from the Clock Tower Plaza to the mansion of the Pinestokes was long and tedious but worth the risks. A rich magnate and his artistically talented wife tempted many a thief to try their luck in lightening their burden of abundance, but of yet all attempts were futile. The night was young and there was no saying where it would end: in a rope, at the bottom of a gutter or on top of the City.  
  
The inner yard of the mansion huddled between storehouses of Pinestoke’s Trading Syndicate and the crates that lined and crumpled along the house wall. A lone guard talked to a dog in a cage, partly out of boredom, partly out of solitariness, partly out of uneasy feeling that gnaws a man when he is forsaken in the dark.  
  
‘I know the job’s not good, I do. But, at least, the pay is fair.’  
  
The dog made a scoffing sound, very human-like, very disapproving. The guard hastened.  
  
‘I shan’t clear my conscience that way, you’re right. But I have to survive. You see, there’s this girl…’ his voice broke and he reached for a pocket portrait to admire a dear face. He checked one pocket, another, turned everything inside out twice and, when he found the desired item misplaced or even lost, swore heartedly, kicking some pebbles and broken glass shades in a fit of anger. The dog pricked up its ears but, upon noticing nothing worth its attention, begrudgingly barked, as if that way of vocalizing its opinion demeaned it, and hid its head under its long tail in shame.  
  
An open window to the kitchen emitted cheery light, balmy odours of well-cooked food and some very unmusical humming. The air inside was stiff from livid smoke, floor in front of the hearth black from cinder, walls greased with vapours of roasting on frying pans food. Despite the overall state of the kitchen, that told nothing complimentary about the cook, this plainly dressed woman managed to turn sloop into a water-mouthing dish. Hutched over the oven like a witch, she did her magic, adding chopped vegetables and pieces of fresh meat into the pot, with a very self-pleased expression rounding her features. Too preoccupied with her cooking, she paid no mind to sudden absence of cutlery and a tea set and continued ardently searching through a shelf of various spices.  
  
A narrow rickety staircase took a curious guest of the mansion down to a wine cellar where almost anyone would love to spend a night or two in a friendly company of fine vintages. As an avid spirits drinker, lord Pinestoke did not hold onto his bottles for long, and two gilded bottles on the lowest shelf were the only ones worth attention. The traitorous stairs creaked under extra weight, vexed they had to carry something, besides their dignity; the sound, however, came unnoticed, because of a volatile maid who popped into the kitchen in an agitated state of mind.  
  
‘Have you seen anything funny?’  
  
‘Like what?’ grumbled the cook, irritated by the distraction.  
  
‘Just now, I’m in the library, right? I look out of the window,’ the maid related her story with sound excitement in the voice, peculiar to the young women who had just suffered a shock, ‘and I see a shadow fall from the sky! I’ve never been so terrified!’  
‘Mary,’ the cook groaned in frustration. ‘Instead of looking out of windows, you’d better go find my knives. Where do you always leave ’em?’  
  
As it became quite obvious that the cook felt content to tend to the sloop and Mary was not given much of a choice about her chores, something had to disrupt their working tranquillity. With a dramatic crash, a bottle met with the floor and broke into dozens of shards. The women upstairs uttered surprised and intrigued yelps and, after a long pause, the cook thickly said,  
  
‘Damned rats everywhere…’ she stopped short and hurried to the hearth. ‘Go, check this out, I can’t let the sloop boil out.’  
  
Mary slowly, dragging her feet and prolonging inevitable, descended the stairs and stared into the dark. Step after cautious step, she sauntered into the cellar and found the source of the noise, when the shards crunched under her shoes. She shrieked, mostly out of enjoyment of the thrilling experience and because people were supposed to yell in such a situation, then exclaimed entirely too cheerful,  
  
‘Someone knocked down a bottle!’  
  
‘A rat, I reckon,’ grunted the cook without averting her attention from the pot. ‘Leave it be, then.’  
  
There were two doors in the kitchen and one led to a spacious dining room, illuminated by electric lamps. A maid in the corner tried to dust a cupboard and did not notice a shadow that darted forward and under the table. Swiftly, the draught rustled a linen tablecloth, moving to the furthest door when the maid, who had climbed onto the chair, unsteadily wobbled and flopped to her side. Nothing could advert the tragedy, so she felt her throat clump in horror and closed her eyes tight, waiting for the pain.  
  
She hit something soft and, upon looking around in disbelief, discovered that she was lying on a long ottoman, which normally stood at the other end of the dining room. She must have tried to climb onto the ottoman first, but found it unsuitable for her needs. Although she could not remember the relocation of the piece of furniture, her thoughts were in disarray at the moment and her whole body felt smitten and weak, so the confusion was only natural. She reclined on the ottoman and mentally thanked whomever was looking after her.  
  
Two guards stood sentry in the main hall of the mansion and ardently gossiped in an attempt to beguile some of the time. As people usually do, they discussed their employers and did it in such remarks and such tones, the conversation should have got them sacked if someone were to overhear them.  
  
‘So she paints, huh? Pretty weird for a woman,’ said the one with foppishly groomed moustache. His uniform had a touch of imposingness over it.  
  
‘Pinestoke adores her, you see,’ explained his partner with a scoff, showing an utter distaste for thoughtless reverence of a woman. ‘Fulfils her every whim.’  
  
‘But what’s she paint?’ the curious dandy seemed too lost in his own reverie to follow the train of thoughts of his partner. The second guard shrugged, probably, finding the very idea of a woman doing _something_ ludicrous.  
  
‘I dunno. The same things they embroider, prob’ly. Flowers, their own names. Same rubbish.’  
  
He fumbled with his sheath and made a face as if he was about to spit on the floor in mortal disdain but, naturally, restrained his wild emotions and scoffed for the second time, even more horse-like than before.  
  
Up close, the guards reeked of cheap beer so that their thin purses were not surprizing but frustrating nonetheless. The conversation was heating up with every word; the guards raised their voices in the hope of reasoning with each other. Uproarious altercations between men of the Watch were better avoided for they tended to get out of control very rapidly. The guard with a particular dislike of women had been viciously flashing his eyes and angrily jerking his hand for quite some time and he would lose his temper in a matter of minutes.  
  
Suddenly, something in the darkness at the end of the hall made a distinctive clicking sound. Started, the guards fell quiet, glaring at the shadows. One seemed to dissipate somewhere and soon the guards returned to their brawl.  
  
A narrow closet under the staircase was cramped with old, rusty armours of different configurations and a single, relatively new leather one. As the door to a study was no longer locked, the room had to provide a better hiding place than the ridged with swords and spears armoury. The door opened and closed with a soft nudge.  
  
Darkness, gentle as a gauzy veil, prevailed in the study, a thin tallow candle failed to provide a man with a feeling of safety and blinded even with its weak light. If one decided to judge lord Pinestoke by his study, this recluse of his business and ruminations, the observation would disappoint a casual observer. Stout and dumpy, just like his writing table, lord Pinestoke boasted no artistic imagination and turned the room into a tasteless collection of expensive furniture and platitudinous paintings that did not suit each other. Two bookcases displayed numerous books on various subjects, clearly unread and clearly concealing no secret passages. Lord Pinestoke did not have any secrets and was as plain as a blank piece of paper.  
  
Apart from a shiny inkwell and golden letter opener, the writing desk awarded an inquisitive finder with a note, containing a three-numbered sequence “758,” a safe code, no doubt. Thank the old gods, that people of the City had such a bad memory. Rumours told that lord Pinestoke did not trust banks (and he was almost the only aristocrat who maliciously rubbed his hands, instead of pulling out his hair in fury, after the last arrogant heist) and stashed his legal and semi-legal profits from the market in his mansion. This safe was, certainly incomparable to the Great Safe but still quite tempting to a burglar.  
  
Ventilation systems in the City stupefied even venerable architects who, although unable to explain reasonably, why vents had to be roomy enough for a grown man to fit in, persisted in building them like that anyway. This one, easily accessible from the bookcase, joined the study with a sitting room. A thick carpet muffled the fall but a bird gawked at that direction with its moist black eyes and worriedly crowed. It followed a slow movement of something dark and figureless with apprehension, blinking and ruffling its feathers to seem bigger and more threatening. When the shadowy creature stopped at a table and reached for a shiny bust, which glimmered so temptingly during the long evenings, the bird calmed down. It was another magpie, surely, albeit huge and ugly. Unfortunately, the magpie could not (or did not want to) help the bird out of its cage but there was no point in alarming everyone, confinement would do the magpie no good.  
  
Back in the hall, the guards discovered the disappearance of their purses and went on their patrols, glaring daggers at each other as both suspected in larceny their partner. The dandy swore under his breath rather ungallantly, summoning the wrath of all gods onto his partner’s head, and sincerely hoped his curses would result in a form of some night monster that would snatch the villain, eat him and gloat over his clean, pinkish bones. The said villain, whose head was still steaming from his anger, mentally concocted a fib for his harpy of a wife, which explained an absence of his whole fee for the last month, and looked straight under his feet. He had already had an embarrassing experience of stumbling over an unconscious body at his previous job and he did not want that horrifying incident to repeat.  
  
While the way upstairs was free, it required a bit of finesse because of all the lights. No one had ever gained anything except for bruises, wounds and premature death, barging into a feat like a burrick into a shop. A guard walked round the balustrade, and the moment he turned his back to the end of the staircase a shadow darted forward as silent on a carpet as a ghost. A quick check through a keyhole of the nearest door showed nothing hazardous, and everything dark and suspicious slid into the library just in time for the guard to turn to the right.  
  
The room was engulfed in darkness. From the top of the bookcase, it was easy to observe three men, clustered at the fireplace with their arms outstretched towards the jocose, playful flames, so animated they seemed alive and sentient. The library fascinated for two reasons: on the one hand, a lot of care and money was put into creating this expensive room with oak-panelled walls with magnificent carvings that added a necessary hint of murk to the place. An eye rejoiced at parallel bars, crossing the ceiling, decorated with splendid pearly stucco mouldings; the decorum was a courtesy of lady Lorelei, known for her fondness for all kinds of art. On the other hand, a more perceptive, pensive person viewed it as a chapel of knowledge, accumulated by dozens of generations, that urged to get lost in its narrow aisles and to cling to the vial of its wisdom. Every single book begged to be read, to be touched, to be engaged in a mutually captivating conversation in some secluded, lonesome nook. The prospect was so craved for, so enticing and yet…  
  
‘The night is so dark,’ mused one of the guards, robust and sharp-eyed. ‘Perfect for the Master Thief.’  
  
‘Don’t even mention him!’ gasped in terror an elder man, who had a fancier clothes than the other guards and silvered sheath, most likely their officer. Some of his intonations and vocabulary were strangely familiar. ‘If you have time to wag your tongue, use it to return to your rounds.’  
  
‘Yes, sir,’ obeyed the guard with a humourless sigh and went into the maze of bookshelves. For a while only sounds of fire, vigorously burning in the hearth, loud thuds of the guard’s footsteps and soft creaking of the wooden floor interrupted the silence. Then lord Pinestoke asked,  
  
‘I’ve heard about this Master Thief but only silly rumours about witchcraft and demons. There must be a reason for such a price on his head, apart from superstitions.’  
  
‘That’s no superstition, my lord,’ the officer turned away from the fireplace, revealing his face. He had been the head of lord Mitchell’s estate so many months ago, exactly when the Master Thief robbed her of her heirlooms. ‘I saw this goul of the Shades myself.’  
  
Lord Pinestoke flashed a sceptical smile with a disparaging wave of his hand at the display of naïve ignorance. The officer made an elaborate gesture, which was supposed to guard from the evil spirits, and continued, chaffing with every word.  
  
‘The Thief-Taker General protect us from it. They say, he is a vengeful ghost but I know the truth. It’s a beast of the night with shadow minions at its command.’ He realised his listener was not convinced and said dryly. ‘Believe me or not, but I know what I saw. It was a pitch-black night, just like this one. I had ten men squad, all real brutes in their hearts, armed to the teeth. Not the ones to scare easily. Everything was normal at first, till midnight. It’s the time, this beast comes for a hunt. The candles began to flicker and went out all over the house, lamps turning on and off on their own; something doused out even torches in the basement. Then, one by one, my men disappeared, bludgeoned and stashed downstairs, half-alive. With my sword drawn, I was ready for anyone to come but not for him. A shadow jumped out of thin air at my side, its long limb outstretched for a blow; I dodged it and slashed. I did not hope to hit it, ‘cause I thought it was just a spirit without body. The sound it made was not human, as if all the demons shrieked at once, and I saw a blood on my sword. Then it disappeared without a trace and before I did something, the lamp burst and there was only darkness. Something heavy and big crushed my skull and I remember no more.’  
  
All lord Pinestoke’s doubts and thoughts on the story remained to his own knowledge and entertainment because, after the officer’s last word, the lights in the library went out as if on cue. Both of the man uttered quivery yelps, nervously examining the shadows that danced on the floor from the flames on the fireplace. While they were shivering in the rutilant light and flashing their swords aimlessly, something crashed on the other side of the room with a muffled scream, adding more chaos to the situation and eliciting strong panic in the officer and lord Pinestoke’s hearts, who, judging by his wild, lifeless expression, turned a true believer in the forces of evil. They were all ears and eyes, scrutinizing the library and anticipating the horror to make its move, and felt neither a gentle touch nor a lack of a comforting weight on their belts where the purses used to be. There was no time to count the coins, however, as the third guard, who did not fall a victim of shadows but simply stumbled over a pile of books, tried to get to the fireplace by touch and beacons of light. It took no time to unscrew a vent, concealed behind a soft leather armchair, and crouch through it into a small drawing room.  
  
In spite of the darkness, delicate gilded chess pieces of an unfinished game glittered alluringly on a round table right at the other side of the vent. As the collecting magnificent chessmen had evolved into an overenthusiastic passion by this point, soon there was a sheet of paper with a schematic tactics to the game with a devastating defeat of the white laying in place of the figurines. After all, the Queen of Beggars prided herself on behalf of her student for a reason.  
  
The drawing room smelled of dust and old coals, long cold in the hearth, and the feeling of desolation suited not living quarters but a mausoleum. Quite fittingly, an intricately encrusted urn with silver filigree on its sides stood on the mantelpiece as a token of death and mortality. By age-old tradition, people had dispersed of the ashes of a diseased, providing closure to the spirit and emptying a beautiful – and expensive – vessel; the tradition, however, lingered somewhere in the past, now forgotten and blasphemous. Although the notion was intriguing, it remained a velleity. One of the rules explicitly stated that if you had to justify appropriation of this particular item, you left it on its place. There still were doors to unlock, safes to find and paintings to steal, anyway.  
  
The guard, who had been footslogging round the balustrade, stood at the doorstep of the library out of curiosity on a reason for such tumult, and, having no eyes in the back of his head, did not determine a swift, wary movement towards the next door to the left. Lord Pinestoke’s bedroom where he had been banished after his wife grew weary of him appeared simple, almost modest. Its occupant avoided departing here for the night for as long as he could, more afraid of these grey, chilly chambers than of all superstitious tales. The safe was there, in plain view, and yielded to the combination, exposing its secrets with alacrity of a street girl. Several golden ingots glinted in the low light of a candle, a jewelled egg blinked coyly, a pile of bonds rustled under the touch, and a floral brooch fitted perfectly in a pouch on the strap. Not bad.  
  
To walk just behind the guard and to sneak inside lady Lorelei’s bedroom was not difficult. The mistress of the mansion slept soundly in her bed, looking very pale in faint moonlight. Her thin, bony fingers grasped at bedlinens, like a bird’s claws, in the last attempt to find an anchor to the reality. Her blossoming talent distorted her features with deep, loitering pain and sufferings of a passionate mind. A strong, medicinal odour in the air was a definite proof of a systematic laudanum abuse.  
  
A cursory examination of the room showed no signs of the paintings; however, to not check both of oak wardrobes and a trunk was more than any thief could handle. The search revealed emerald earrings, a golden broad bracelet, a ring with fine diamonds and a pearly necklace. “Pearls bring tears,” they say, but in this case, they had brought trouble. When a wardrobe opened, an enormous glass bottle, filled with laudanum, swayed on the edge of a shelf and fell on the floor with a drastic smash.  
  
Lady Lorelei did not even flinch, too deep in her poppy induced haze. She would, probably, spend next several hours as animated as a log, poor addicted artistic soul.  
  
Unlike her, the guard outside the room happened to be more perceptive. He rushed to the door and knocked at it.  
  
‘My lady, is everything fine?’  
  
When he did not receive the answer immediately, he pressed on with his implorations for a while, shifting uncomfortably at the other side of the door, and, finally steeled himself.  
  
‘I’m very sorry, my lady, but I have to come in. Your husband gave us very strict orders. Just in case, there _is_ an intruder in the house.’  
  
He entered with his eyes shut tight to prevent him from seeing any indecency and his timidity sealed his fate. He did not even have time to gasp when a shadow dropped from above and crushed his chest into the carpet with a force ethereal beings could not possess. One powerful blow landed on the back of his neck and he lost his consciousness.  
  
(He would come to his senses an hour and a half later with a pounding headache and find himself in a bed next to peacefully sleeping lady Lorelei. He would keep this incident to himself out of embarrassment and fear of losing his job, but only until he would get to the nearest tavern, where beer would loosen his tongue and create a rather lewd story of the liaison, in which everyone would believe, except for the narrator himself.)  
  
When the sordid business of disposing of the man was over, Garrett had no time to linger because the guards could notice the disappearance of their fellow any minute. As he did not find Lorelei’s paintings in the safe or her bedroom, they could still be somewhere in the workshop.  
  
Everyone either continued to stand their sentry downstairs or were combing through the library, but easily excitable Mary was peeking through a keyhole in a stubborn effort to become a part of some fascinating activities. Unfortunately, she missed a dark figure deftly picking a lock right behind her back and slipping into the room.  
  
The paintings – a triptych called _The Lacustrine Studies_ – stood in a row, perching against the wall. The hot-headed guard downstairs had gotten one thing right about lady Lorelei’s work: flowers bloomed on the canvas and there, indeed, was her name present in the corners of the painting. Regarding everything else, however, it was safe to say that the girls from the House of Blossoms would only benefit after studying that triptych. Garrett, perhaps, was not the one to judge neither his customers’ taste nor the people he robbed, and he cut all three paintings out of their canvases without further ado and, climbing out of a window, reached for the roof.  
  
The plan for the rest of the night was easy: to get to the clock tower and not be caught or killed on his way there. Thankfully, not all of his tasks were that easy. Otherwise, who would love a life that uneventful and boring?

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Garrett robbed this story of his presence. Sorry to disappoint.


End file.
